Is a poem a thing of art
Carefully crafted in every part?
Or does the poet roughly ssing
Of Cupid’s sting
And pages wet
That he may not forget
His unrequited love?
The heart
Finds expression in art.
Rough hewn or not
The poet has got
To find a voice.
He has no choice
Other than to obtain a brief
reprieve
From grief
In the words he doth weave.
Sitting on a bench in the school playground
With children milling all around.
Yes, I remember it as though it was yesterday,
The actors came to perform a play.
Me weak
With a longing only half understood.
Unable to speak
And gawkishly shy,
I would
Die
Where I to address
The girl in the summer dress.
I recollect nought of the play
Yet thoughts of the actresses with me stay.
With age
‘Tis said one becomes a sage.
Today
Different actors perform upon the stage
And now my hair is grey
I pay
To see the players play.
As with the actors of yesterday
They too, will fade away.
The fire
Rages
In stages.
At times it burns low
And I know
Sleep
Will creep
Into my room,,
Her sweet perfume
Rendering me
Free
Of desire.
Yet at other times the fire
Doth burn
Bright.
My thoughts turn
To delight,
Which slippery as eels
Itself reveals,
Then, a fleeting satisfaction seals.
Midnight steals
Away.
The hot coal
In my soul
By day
Burns low
Yet I know
The glow
Is always there
And will, once more, flare
I see a vanished land
Where the squire held command
Over the countryside,
Before the tide
Turned
And paternalism was spurned,
Or merely ebbed away
Ushering in a new day.
To hounds he rode
Or through his estate strode
In search of grouse or pheasant.
With countenance pleasant
Or severe
He ruled his peasants
Far and near.
Sometimes a thinker
And often a drinker
He felt a connection with the whole
Estate, his soul
Was as one
with generations long since gone.
Frequently inarticulate
He did hate
The untried
And cried
Out for the preservation of the old ways.
Nothing stays
Unaltered.
The rock-like squire faltered
As the wind of progress
That does redress
All ills, brought salvation
To the nation.
Now those who the price of everything know, hold command
While squire and peasant stand
Bemused, upon this altered land.
Thank you to my colleague Alison, for drawing my attention to Thomas Hardy’s poem, “The Dead Man Walking”. It is a powerful piece which does, I believe speake for itself, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZP1v54SeHY4
Thank you to Emma Lee for taking the time to read and review my latest collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”. You can find Emma’s review here, https://emmalee1.wordpress.com/2016/05/11/lost-in-the-labyrinth-of-my-mind-k-morris/.
Polonius famously remarks, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend”. While I haven’t lost any friends as a consequence of lending books, I have determined not to let others borrow my work in future.
As those of you who follow this blog will know, the print edition of “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” has been available to buy for several months. Since it’s publication I have given away copies to family and friends. In addition several libraries and my local pub (who maintain a small lending library) have been recipients of free copies of “Lost”. While I am delighted to have my book available in libraries and dens of iniquity (sorry I mean pubs)! I have clamped down on lending “Lost in the Labyrinth” to readers other than via the institutions (including my local pub) who hold copies. My rucksack usually contains several copies of “Lost” which, if the opportunity arises I show to potential readers in the hope they will purchase a copy. While a number of people have bought copies without asking to borrow my work, I have been surprised that several individuals have asked, “Can I borrow it?” The first few times this question was asked resulted in me answering in the affirmative. I have, however now come to the conclusion that if, after having looked at my book someone is sufficiently interested to request to borrow a copy, then they are (potentially) intrigued enough to purchase one. I have therefore taken to saying that the book is for sale and (thus far) readers have happily bought my work.
Someone or other famously remarked that “its nice to be nice”. Indeed it is. However authors are not registered charities and we should not be expected to give away or lend out our books for free. This may sound harsh, however one would not expect the local butcher or publican to give away free joints of meat or beer so why should authors be expected to do so? Having said that, I have given away at least one copy of my work to a person who, I sensed could not afford to pay for it. I felt this was the right thing to do. However those who can pay (unless they are family and/or close friends) should, in my opinion do so. I wouldn’t expect a free haircut in my local barber’s nor should he expect a free copy of my book.
In conclusion, generosity is a wonderful trait but, as authors we need to insure that we are not taken advantage of by those who could easily pay for our work but instead choose to request a free copy or to borrow one. Charity is a splendid thing and I have (with fellow authors) contributed to a charity anthology in aid of Guide dogs). However charity and money making need to be separated out, otherwise authors risk what is (often) only meagre earnings from their litary endeavours being swallowed up by paying out for their own work which they then give away or lend rather than sell.
There is a quiet place out of reach
Of those who hatred preach.
They prate,
And understand to late
Or perhaps not at all
That pride comes before a fall.
Words meaningful as a harlot’s compliment fall
On the ear
Of men who hear, What they want to hear.
The truth clear
Is, I fear
To often lost, in sound and beer.
The fanatic’s words drear
Will Fill the empty soul
Of those who’s goal
Is the destruction of the whole
Liberal project,
To which They object
Without knowing why,
Then, pointlessly die.
Outside my window the birds twitter.
No bitter
Singing from those who live, yet know it not.
Their lot
Is a happy one,
For they are here then gone
Without foreknowledge that the sky will darken.
I will harken
To another song.
The long
Summer nights have arrived.
Why do I strive
For delights
Of a different kind,
When I find
In the birds
A truth surpassing words?
“I haven’t done this kind of thing before. I mean girls from my background do sometimes. I know they do, but it’s not kind of a normal thing to do is it? I know other girls do it but, really I’m not sure …”, she said, conscious of repeating herself.
The girl leant forward on the hotel barstool, her stillettos clicking against it as she did so.
“There is a first time for everything”, he said trying not to be overt in his admiration of those slim bare legs. “Why not give it a go, I’ve never had anyone regret it afterwards?”
“Oh I don’t know. What will my friends think of me? As I just told you, girls don’t usually do this kind of thing. Well girls like me that is”. She said staring nervously at the money on the bar.
“Go on, you know you want to”, the man replied giving what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Well … as you say my friends don’t need to know and I’m an open minded kind of girl, always up for trying new things. No one is watching are they?” she said glancing around the practically empty bar.
“No, no, no one is looking at us. Now is as good a time as any if you want to go through with it”, he said, glancing at her tiny, perfectly manicured fingers as they played nervously with the cash on the bar.
“OK, I’ve made a decision”, she said picking up the money and, glancing around for one final time handing it to her companion. “I like what I’ve seen so, yes I’ll buy your book. Will you sign it for me?”, she asked smiling shyly …
